


Broken Pieces

by Colorado



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, F/M, Friendship/Love, Jealousy, Jewelry, Mystery, Nazis, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Waltzing, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 03:58:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2493569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colorado/pseuds/Colorado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't like Todd. Molly's childhood sweetheart is too tall, too blonde, too perfect. Why has he come back into her life at this moment? What really happened between their grandfathers in World War II? </p><p>The facts indicate Molly could be in danger, but John says jealousy is clouding Sherlock's mind. Which isn't true because he and Molly are just friends. Right? </p><p>A Sherlolly mystery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**_Disclaimers:_ **

****

**_1\. No copyright infringement intended. I bow before the altar of Conan Doyle, Gatiss, and Moffat._ **

**_2\. Contains dastardly deeds, a crimson gown, a handsome hero, and a Viennese waltz. And other stuff._ **

**_3\. This story follows_ The Lonely.**

~s~s~s~s~

"I never said we were friends."

If Sherlock Holmes had made this statement to Molly Hooper three months earlier, his rudeness might have triggered tears and hurt feelings. He had always been good at wounding the youngest pathologist on staff at St. Bart's to the core with his insensitivity. But since he said this on a lazy Sunday morning as he stretched out on her floral couch, Molly only rolled her eyes.

"What's a five-letter word for 'trout basket' that ends in 'l'?" she asked.

"Creel," he replied, rapidly typing on his laptop.

"Oh, yes! Got it!" She put the crossword puzzle down with a flourish. "By the way, you did say you were my friend. With this."

Molly raised her arm above her head to show him that she was wearing the silver charm bracelet he had given her for her birthday. Everything between them had shifted when he explained that the sparkling star charm was Polaris, or true north. _She_ was his true north.

Sherlock glanced to where she sat on the floor leaning back against the couch. His rich baritone voice filled the living room. "You believe my giving you a present nonverbally communicates friendship."

"Yes." Molly freed her shiny brown hair from the bun atop her head so it flowed over her shoulders. "Plus, when you consider that you come over to hang out, it doesn't take the world's only consulting detective to deduce..."

"I do not come over to 'hang out.' I do not 'hang out,'" he corrected her with a harrumph. "I am either working or researching when I am here."

"You could do that at Baker Street," Molly pointed out.

Sherlock closed his laptop. "True. But I like to talk through my observations, and John inconveniently lives with Sarah now and refuses to move back to our rooms. In fact, ever since I told him that he was selfish, he has refused to speak to me. You, on the other hand, are always glad to see me. You are a good listener, much more attentive than the skull. Therefore it makes sense that I do some of my work here."

Ignoring him, Molly maneuvered to stand up, but no matter how carefully she moved, she still winced. Three months earlier she had suffered two broken ribs and a collapsed lung in a horrific car accident. She had healed fine, but the occasional jolt of pain could take her breath away, especially when she spent too much time on her feet or slept in the wrong position.

Molly had Sherlock's full attention. Avoiding his raised eyebrows, she pulled down the bottom of her pink pajama top so that the fluffy sheep lined up properly. "Would you like a cuppa?"

"Do not attempt to deflect me."

Molly gingerly walked to her small kitchen. "I'll take some naproxen sodium if it will make you happy."

She gasped to see Sherlock now standing behind her, his having moved as quickly as a cat on the prowl. "Take the medication because the doctor prescribed it and you are in pain, not because of some emotional response you think I will have."

Molly began to argue that of the two of them, she was the one with the medical degree but gave up under his unflinching stare. "OK, I'll take it."

Satisfied that Molly was fine, he returned to the couch. "Yes to the tea. And kippers."

"Say please," she sing-songed softly.

When he wasn't on a case and she wasn't at work, Sherlock often showed up on Sunday mornings, a routine that began after she was discharged from the hospital. Still heavily medicated, Molly had staggered to answer the door and found Sherlock waiting impatiently, his laptop in one hand, a newspaper for her in the other.

"You made headlines."

He held up a section that featured a photo of Molly taken at her first St. Bart's Angel Wings Ball that someone in the human resources department must have dug up for the tabloid. The headline read, "Resurrected Detective's Gal Pal Released From Hospital."

After staring at him, then the paper, then blankly back at him, she wordlessly had turned and crawled back in bed, leaving him to his own devices in her flat. She didn't really care if he was mentally reducing her dull life down to its base components. However, his arrival turned out to be a good thing, because she ended up needing help sorting out which pills to take when.

The next time he came over, she felt physically better but was still uncertain why he was seated on her rocking chair. But as soon as she began to relax in the nest of pillows she had built on the couch, she enjoyed his company, even if he didn't talk to her for hours at a time or seem to notice when she got up to shower. Over the weeks, she discovered he paid no attention if she even left the flat. Once Molly had asked if he wanted to run errands with her, only to receive a weary Sherlockian look. Sometimes he would still be there when she returned, sometimes not.

This particular lazy Sunday morning had started no differently, except as she worked on her crossword puzzle, number three across reminded her of a book she had once read. The author had theorized that all men grew complacent in romantic relationships.

 _I don't need to worry about this being a "romantic relationship,"_ Molly smirked. _But if the average man becomes complacent in romances, what can I expect from a genius like Sherlock Holmes in a friendship?_

So she had blurted out, "We'll always be friends."

Pouring two steaming cups of tea, she felt the bracelet lightly on her wrist. She really wasn't one for jewelry of any kind, but this bracelet was different.

"Your tea is ready," she called out.

"And the kippers?"

"In a mo'," she replied. No, they weren't boyfriend and girlfriend, but they were more than what they had been before.

She heard Sherlock's phone alert him to a text message.

"Change of plans! New case!" he shouted.

Molly walked out to find her front door standing open. With a slight shake of her head, she shut it and grinned.

"Bye, Sherlock."

~s~s~s~s~

On the surface, the case wasn't very interesting. The French ambassador had requested Sherlock's help in tracking down an expatriate family. But after he easily located them what had intrigued the detective was the fact the family had fled their homeland because they had been Nazi collaborators.

"So why are we in the morgue?" John followed Sherlock as his friend pushed open the familiar double doors.

"This hair sample is the key to the aunt's murder. I have to test it," Sherlock said. "Molly!"

"No need to shout," she replied with a smile that was almost as sunny as her yellow jumper. "Hi Sherlock, hi John."

"Hello Molly," John said, noticing she sounded a little tired.

Sherlock took off his coat and scarf and tossed them on her desk.

"I need the results of that experiment we did last week on trace cyanide," he announced briskly.

"Be right back," she said obligingly.

"Why do you do that?" John asked, annoyed.

"Do what?" Sherlock began preparing the microscope he normally used.

"Why can't you even extend common courtesy to her? Say hello? Ask how her day is going?"

"Hello is implied," Sherlock spoke as if he was explaining his actions to a slow child. "I already know how her day is going: She is frustrated. Her neatly pinned hair is mussed on one side, indicating she had been leaning her head against the heel of her hand. Molly does this when she is reading. She has spent most of her morning reading Monday administration reports, which has led to frustration as all bureaucracy does.

"Molly is not hard to deduce," Sherlock concluded. "She does not do anything unexpected."

"Um, hi? I was told Dr. Hooper was here. Dr. Molly Hooper?"

A man in his early thirties wearing dark blue jeans and a brightly colored rugby shirt stood in the doorway. Sherlock looked up quickly and noted the man's casual, friendly demeanor before turning his attention back to the slide he was preparing.

John wasn't one to really notice other men, but the words "Greek" and "god" flashed through his mind as he looked at the stranger who seemed to exude good health and the outdoors from his very pores. "She'll be right back," he said politely.

Right on cue, Molly entered through the other door. "Here are the results, Sherlock."

"Molly?" The stranger took a step inside.

"Yes?" she paused tentatively.

The man flashed a bright smile. "It's Todd. I mean, I'm Todd. Todd McCarthy."

The file folder in Molly’s hand fluttered to the ground as her disbelief melted into recognition. She squealed as she flew across the room. The tall man wrapped the petite brunette in a hug and soundly kissed her.

"That was unexpected," John said as Sherlock watched the pair silently.

"I read about your accident online. Are you all right?" Todd asked.

"I'm fine! I can't believe you are really here after all these years!" Sheepishly, she turned to John and Sherlock. "This is my cousin, Todd McCarthy. Todd, this is Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson."

John nodded his acknowledgement; Sherlock scowled his.

"Molly, you do not have any living relatives," the detective stated.

"We aren't really cousins," Todd began to explain, draping his arm around her shoulder.

"No, we're not related, but we are family," she said with a blush. "We were practically raised together until we were...nine? Ten?"

"I was ten when we moved to America. We had just watched that wretched movie on my tenth birthday, remember?" he asked, causing Molly into peals of delightful giggles.

"I do!" she exclaimed. "And that cake you tried to make? Awful!"

"I gave up all cooking for good after that. I'm strictly a TV dinner guy!"

The two continued smiling at the shared memory, studying one another. Finally, Molly continued, "Our grandfathers were best friends."

"More like brothers," Todd interjected.

Molly nodded and gazed into his dark brown eyes. "My grandfather and Todd's served together in World War II. After they came home, grandfather moved to the coast, but Grandpa Charlie looked him up and they really were never apart after that."

Todd nodded. "Grandpa Charlie even rented a house from Molly’s grandfather."

John smiled; Sherlock noted the way Todd's thumb traced counter clockwise circles on Molly's shoulder.

"I was always glad grandfather had Charlie. He didn't have many friends."

Sherlock returned his attention once more to his slides, but John listened with interest.

"So...your parents grew up together?" he asked.

Molly grinned. "My mum and Todd's dad were pals. Do you know that she told me Charlie was all in favor of them getting married? Can you imagine? If that had happened, then neither of us would be here!"

"Imagine," Sherlock muttered, earning him a disapproving look from John.

"But grandfather encouraged mum to go get an education, and once she left the village, she never went back. But we lived close enough to Todd's family that we saw each other all the time." Molly turned her attention to childhood friend. "So what are you doing here?"

"Grandpa Charlie remarried after Grandma Barbara died, remember?" Todd asked.

"Oh yes, it was quite a scandal!" Molly looked over at John and Sherlock knowingly. "Rosalie was _very_ young."

John noted that Sherlock's scowl deepened as Todd continued talking. "Well, she passed away recently and I came over to help settle her estate. My dad was just too busy to make the trip. Well, I was going through her things and found Grandpa Charlie's journals and letters. They reminded me of a certain freckle-faced MollyBug!" 

Molly blushed deeply as Todd pulled her closer. "I did an Internet search for you. I was so surprised to see all these articles pop up about you and Sherlock Holmes!"

Everyone's eyes drifted over to the consulting detective who positively glared at them. Molly broke the awkward silence by patting Todd on the arm. "How long are you here for?"

"My schedule is pretty flexible." He grinned broadly. "Are you free for lunch?"

"I'm not doing anything at all!"

"Molly!" Sherlock sounded annoyed.

"Everything you need is right here, Sherlock. You're fine." Molly snatched her purse out of a bottom desk drawer. "I'll be back in a while."

After the couple had left, Sherlock sat perfectly still. John didn't believe he even blinked. Then, with an explosive bang, he pushed back his stool and stormed out of the lab.

"Well," John said aloud. "This is going to be interesting."


	2. Chapter 2

At a corner table in a small eatery near the hospital, Molly and Todd laughed and reminisced, pausing their conversation only when their meals arrived. Molly took that opportunity to sneak a long look at her friend. For a towheaded little boy with big ears, Todd has grown up to be a very handsome man. His wavy hair had matured into a dark blonde that he kept closely cropped, and his warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He was tall and lightly built, but it was evident he was strong and wiry, and his sun-kissed face evidenced he liked to spend time outdoors.

"Do you remember...?" Todd began.

"How many times do you think we've already said that phrase today?" Molly giggled.

"At least a dozen," he replied good-naturedly. "But this is a good one. Remember when you and I pretended we were Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip receiving people at the palace?"

Molly let out a low whistle. "My mum was so angry. I'm surprised my bum still doesn't hurt from the spanking I got!"

Todd laughed and clapped his hands. "Just because you put on every piece of her jewelry and her fur stole to greet your cat subjects!"

Molly couldn't help laughing too. "And I wore Gran's special necklace as a tiara outside in the garden!"

As their laughter died down, Todd's eyes held an indefinable expression that was gone as quickly as it had appeared. "I can't tell you how much I missed you after we moved."

"What was your life like in America?"

Todd absently pushed the food around on his plate. "It was rough at first. But dad's teaching position at the university was a good one. Never made him any money, though. I started college, but I never could stick with it. Too dull. I wanted to try my hand at the American dream and start a business."

"How did that go?" Molly asked, taking a bite of her sandwich.

He shrugged. "Not too well. Don't get me wrong—America is the land of opportunity. I just had a hard time finding the right one. But then I went to California. Now that is the place to be!"

"So what is it you do?"

"I do marketing for a large Internet company that imports art from other countries."

"That sounds lovely," Molly said encouragingly.

"I guess," he said in a way that almost sounded abstracted.

Molly looked at him quizzically. His vacant expression became animated again. "But you! I always knew you would do something in medicine, ever since your dad bought you that microscope. You're as smart as you are beautiful."

"That is so sweet!" Molly exclaimed with a little laugh. "You're smart, too. Who else could have thought up all those crazy games we used to play or all those ways to get us into trouble?"

" _Moi_?" Todd tried to look offended. "I've got a great idea! I need to take care of some more details of Rosalie's estate and do some actual work for my paycheck, but I'll be back in London in a few days. What if we drive up to our old stomping ground? We could see the sights, go on a picnic? What do you think?"

"That would be fun."

"Great! How about we leave first thing Sunday morning?"

"Sunday?" Molly hesitated.

"Do you already have plans?"

"Um, no, it's just...." Molly bit her lower lip.

"Oh, I see." Todd pushed his plate away. "It's Sherlock Holmes, isn't it? You and he are...?"

"We're just friends," she said firmly. As Todd's face lit up with relief, it occurred to her that he was possibly romantically interested in her. Flattered, she blushed. "Sunday sounds perfect."

~s~s~s~s~

John had seen Sherlock behave like an arse many times. He had witnessed his friend be cold, calculating, and downright cruel on occasion, and the doctor had been on the receiving end of some of this rude behavior. But he had never seen Sherlock act as icily as he did Molly when she happily returned to St. Bart's after lunch.

"You are late," Sherlock declared.

"Sorry!" She smiled as she put away her purse. "Time must have gotten away from me. We were having so much fun."

John stood to one side, pretending to be reading a text, but he could hear every word of their conversation. After leaving the lab in a temper, Sherlock had returned five minutes later, calm and collected. He explained to John what needed to happen to finish his test; he never mentioned Molly or Todd.

"What did you do that was so much fun?" Sherlock asked evenly, not looking up from the notes he was taking.

"Oh, you know, talking about our childhood." Molly pulled up a stool and sat next to him. "I never really realized it before, but I miss having someone around who knew me from back then, someone who knew my mum and dad. It's like reconnecting with who I used to be."

Sherlock didn't reply or even look at her. Molly gave him a puzzled look, then continued. "Spending time with Todd reminded me of a lot of things I'd forgotten about. Like how Todd's grandfather, Grandpa Charlie, used to tell the most interesting stories about World War II. My grandfather never, ever talked about it, but Grandpa Charlie? Every time our families got together, he would tell the same story about how he and my grandfather stormed a town held by the Germans in Tilly-sur-Suilles. Over the years, the number of Germans grew from twenty to five hundred! My grandfather would always tell him to stop, but Grandpa Charlie would say, 'As long as I'm alive, I will tell everyone about this.'"

"Fascinating." Sherlock's voice dripped with contempt.

Frowning, Molly got up and prepared to go back to work. "Sherlock, about this weekend?"

"Yes?"

"Todd and I are driving up north. I...I won't be home on Sunday."

Sherlock paused a beat too long. When he did speak, his voice was dangerously controlled. "Why would I care?"

"It's just that you and I've been spending quite a few Sundays together..." Molly's brow furrowed in confusion.

"We have no set agreement. It is of no consequence to me if you go with Tom..."

"Todd," she said patiently.

 "Todd," he repeated with a sneer. "It was merely a matter of convenience for me to spend time at your flat. I explained that already. You are barely a step above the skull."

"That's fine," she stammered, her cheeks growing hot under his scathing tone. "I just wanted you to know in case you came over. I won't be home for a day or so."

"Consider me notified," Sherlock said coldly. "In fact, I do not think I will come over any more. John is speaking to me again, so I have no reason to spend time with you at all. You have served your purpose."

John physically winced as Molly quickly left the room, her eyes bright with tears.

"Bravo. Take a bow," he said.

"Stop talking nonsense," Sherlock snapped.

"OK, let me spell it out in terms that might get through your thick skull. You're a jerk. You're mean, insensitive, and acting like a child."

"I am not."

"Yes, you are. You're a spoiled brat who isn't getting the attention he expects. You're jealous."

"Jealous?" Sherlock snorted and stood. "That implies that I feel threatened by Todd's position in Molly's life, which I in no way do. She and I are friends."

"Friends?" John folded his arms across his chest. "That's how you treat your friends?"

Pulling on his coat, Sherlock glowered. "She knows exactly who I am."

Frustrated, John headed to the door. "Molly just explained how nice it was to have a friend in her life who knew her parents, and you treat her like crap."

Following on John's heels, Sherlock said darkly, "She can have other friends. But there is something about this man that I find wholly untrustworthy."

"And you're not jealous," John muttered.

~s~s~s~s~

Mycroft Holmes sat waiting for them at 221B Baker Street on Sherlock's favorite chair, sipping tea.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded, the first words he had spoken since he and John had left the hospital.

"Hello." Sherlock's elder brother directed his remarks to John.

Not wanting to get in the middle of another skirmish between the Holmes boys, the doctor turned and walked into the kitchen.

"Answer me, Mycroft. What are you doing in my rooms?" Sherlock went window-to-window, tearing open the curtains.

"You are working on a case that has come to my attention. The French ambassador asked you to find a certain Moreau family now living in London?"

"What of it? They changed their name to Moore when they fled France. I thought they might be interesting to study, but they were simply idiot collaborators, the entire family. The only thing of interest to me now is the recent murder of the great aunt. She was poisoned."

"Yes, I know," Mycroft said drily. 

"She was killed by one of her great nephews or great nieces, I am not sure which one yet. So I will only ask you this once more: What are you doing here?" Sherlock's eyes flashed in anger.

"The situation has become...delicate." Mycroft handed Sherlock a file. "The Moreau family fled because, as you so eloquently put it, they were all idiot collaborators. Seeing the inevitable outcome of the war, they abandoned their estate early on to avoid reprisals. But in the last year, the younger members of the family have submitted claims about property stolen from them during the war. Some of the items were very valuable."

John listened from the doorway. "Why does our government care?"

Mycroft adjust his cuffs. "Because we have received an untraceable text message that says 'All collaborators who live in our country will be hunted down and killed.'"

"The great aunt wasn't murdered by her relatives then?" John concluded.

Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his chin. "That is interesting."

"Do find out if it is significant and let me know, will you? Goodbye, Dr. Watson." Mycroft stood and let himself out.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock’s rich, baritone laughter filled the cab, a welcome sound to John Watson’s ears. He hadn’t even seen Sherlock crack a smile since Todd McCarthy had re-entered Molly’s life. Now the detective chuckled as he recounted how he had told Anderson the real cause of death in the Moore murder case. To say Anderson didn’t take the news that he was completely wrong well was an understatement.

John couldn’t help smiling, too. Anderson was a prat. “So, who are we going to see now?”

“Hildy Moore, the youngest great-niece of Gertrude Moore. I already know she is not the murderer and will be utterly useless, but I am going to speak with her on the off chance she has any insights into her cousins.”

John shot him a sidelong look. For all of Sherlock’s shortcomings—and John wasn’t blind to any of them—he genuinely liked the consulting detective. The man had brought excitement and purpose into the doctor’s life.

As usual, Sherlock was correct. Hildy Moore was a wan young woman with listless brown hair and light blue eyes. Her all-black clothing, heavy eyeliner, and multiple tattoos even looked dull. She regarded the detective and the doctor as interruptions in her day of doing nothing but texting on her mobile at the local park.

“This whole thing with Great Aunt Gert? Whatever,” she said dismissively, sitting down on a bench. “If she was a Nazi, we never knew.”

“She wasn’t a Nazi; she and your entire family collaborated with the Nazis,” John corrected her impatiently. The girl shrugged and lit another cigarette.

“That was a like a hundred years ago. Who cares?” She blew smoke out of the corner of her mouth.

Sherlock took a step closer to Hildy. “Some of your older cousins care.”

Hildy snorted. “Who, Cyrus? There must be money involved then. Georgina? She’s probably stupid enough to think someone is after her now.”

“What about Michelle and Charles?” Sherlock asked.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Did you know before now that your family came from France?” John questioned.

“Yeah but I didn’t know we were, like, rich over there. But everything got snagged.”

“Cyrus and Michelle have claimed certain well-known pieces of art and other valuables were stolen. How did they find out about these pieces?” Sherlock asked.

“Ask them.” Hildy shrugged again.

The pair left her bent over her mobile and headed back to their cab.

“I am going to talk to Georgina next,” Sherlock announced.

“Right, good. Drop me off at the clinic, all right? I have some patients to see, then I need to go round to St. Bart’s. I’ll catch up with you at Baker Street.”

Sherlock paused as he opened the door. “St. Bart’s? What for?”

“I need to see Molly about the Angel Wings Ball.” John noticed a dark flicker behind Sherlock’s icy blue eyes. “Do you want me to give her a message?”

His face remained expressionless. “What would I need to say to Molly Hooper?”

~s~s~s~s~

Molly held the silver bracelet Sherlock had given her up to the level of her eyes and watched the charms sway back and forth. The cat, the book, and the microscope seemed to be mocking her for believing that Sherlock would ever treat her differently, despite this birthday gift. The small star charm in particular seemed to be sadly shaking its head.

She couldn’t help it. She felt in her heart that her friendship with the consulting detective had grown past this point, but she couldn’t ignore how cruelly he had spoken to her in the lab. It had been a full week since Sherlock had insulted her, and in that time Molly hadn’t seen or heard from him. Work had kept her busy, but when she went home at night, her mind preyed on her. She replayed that particular afternoon’s events over and over, using Sherlock’s own methods to deduce why his attitude toward her had changed so suddenly. But she came up with nothing.

“He has always treated you badly. Why would he stop now?” She slipped the bracelet into her purse. “True north, my arse.”

_Friendship_ and _caring_ had to have completely different definitions in what was the odd dictionary Sherlock followed. She knew John was his best friend, and yet, she had seen Sherlock treat the kindhearted doctor as if he was unimportant. She wasn’t sure if the detective even knew how to have a real relationship that involved real feelings.

In fact, if Molly knew only one thing for sure it was that Sherlock Holmes had an uncanny ability to make her feel completely miserable in different ways. Not only was she upset with him, she also was unhappy with herself because, in spite of everything, she missed him. And to put a cherry on the top of an already bad week, torrential rain had forced her and Todd to postpone their weekend picnic and sightseeing trip to the village they grew up in.

Seeing how disappointed she was, Todd had tried to make it up to her when he returned to London by taking her shopping. She didn’t particularly like shopping or spend a lot of time doing it, but Todd had flashed a credit card and said it was his treat. Now it was Monday morning and she stood in front of the small mirror in the loo at work, staring at the results of their trip to the shops.

Her newly trimmed hair lay down her back in an elegant French braid. A fitted green blouse, looking both professional and stylish, was as comfortable as any of her old cotton pullovers. The smart black slacks seemed to add inches to her height while showing off her curves. Persuaded by a determined woman at the cosmetics counter, Molly had given in and bought a new shade of lipstick called _Caribbean Rose_. Todd had said it brought out the gold flecks in her brown eyes.

Thinking of Todd’s words warmed her. He made her happy. He laughed at her jokes, listened when she spoke, and expressed interest in her opinions. He didn’t insult her wardrobe. He didn’t tell her that her mouth and breasts were too small.

In other words, he was the polar opposite of Sherlock Holmes. And yet she was in love with the man who treated her very poorly. When Sherlock had snapped at her, it went beyond his ordinary rudeness. No, there was something else behind his words.

He had been _mean._

If an illustrator were sketching her at that very moment, he would’ve drawn a little light bulb appearing over her head.

“Sherlock was _angry_ with me!” Molly realized.

The air in the bathroom was warm and heavy with the cloying scent of antibacterial soap. Molly began to pace as she reviewed that afternoon one more time. What on earth had she done to anger him? Sherlock had asked for his test results, and she had obliged. When she returned to the lab, Todd was there and she went to lunch.

Molly rubbed her forehead. Why would her going to lunch with Todd make Sherlock angry?

_Unless…_

She gasped. Was that it? Was Sherlock angry because she hadn’t stayed to help him with his experiment?

But that didn’t make sense. He knew where everything was in the lab. In fact, he had recently suggested a new schematic for organizing it. No, her absence wouldn’t have held his work, unless he was upset that she wasn’t there to wait on him hand and foot?

“Unbelievable!” she exclaimed. Absorbed in thought, she left the restroom and walked down the hall to her lab. As she rounded the corner, she ran smack into John Watson.

“John!” she cried in surprise. She looked around the doctor’s shoulder, hoping to see his tall, dark friend to give him a piece of her mind. And to see how he was.

“He’s not here,” John said quietly. “I’m really sorry for how he behaved last time.”

Molly managed a smile. “You aren’t responsible for him.”

As they walked toward the lab, John took in Molly’s appearance. “You look very nice today. New hair cut?”

“Yes, actually. Todd took me shopping this weekend and I decided to do a bit of a makeover.” Molly walked over to her desk and beamed at her friend. “So, what can I do for you?”

“I’m here on behalf of my much better half. Sarah’s been volunteering on this year’s Angel Wings Ball planning committee and wanted me to give you these.” John produced two tickets from his coat pocket. “Would you like to join us at our table?”

Molly smiled wistfully at the gold-embellished tickets dated for that coming Saturday. “I wasn’t planning on going.”

“Oh?”

“I went the first year I worked here and it was nice and all, but I don’t really like to go to dances without a date, you know?”

John nodded. “Well, hold on to the tickets in case you change your mind.”

“Tell Sarah I appreciate her thinking of me.”

As John turned to leave, the door opened and Todd walked in.

“Well, this is my day for visitors!” Molly laughed. “What are you doing here?”

Todd nodded to John, then turned on a heart-stopping smile for Molly. “I’m here to get the keys to your flat!”

“Why?”

“Because I want to make dinner and have it waiting for you when you get home!”

“I’m not going to turn down an offer like that!” Molly exclaimed and went to fish her keys out of her coat pocket.

“Forever in my heart,” Todd murmured quietly. He had forgotten John still stood behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

Molly’s mouth was already watering in anticipation of a real home-cooked dinner as she turned the corner and headed to her flat. Sometimes after work she would pick up a curry or make a sandwich or have a bowl of cereal, but she didn’t normally take the time or have the energy to cook a balanced meal after a long shift.

“I’m home, honey!” she called teasingly as she opened the front door.

Todd came out of the kitchen looking distressed. “Molly, I messed up. I bought lamb chops instead of pork chops and didn’t realize it until I unwrapped them. And I remember how much you don’t like lamb…”

A little disappointed, she forced a smile. “That’s all right.”  

As she shook off her coat, Todd was instantly there to take it from her.

“So I got us a pizza. I’m really sorry.”

Todd looked so hapless Molly couldn’t help but forgive him.

“No problem. I’ve got a good bottle of wine we can open.”

~s~s~s~s~

The haunting melody of Mendelssohn’s _Violin Concerto in E Minor_ greeted John as he entered 221 Baker Street. As he mounted the stairs, his former roommate caressed each note with exaggerated drama.

John didn’t bother knocking. Instead, he opened the door and sat in his usual chair to wait for Sherlock to finish.

“John! You missed an extremely dull interview with Georgina Moore Walters,” Sherlock announced as he drew the bow across the strings.

“Really? What did she have to say?”

Sherlock walked over to the mantle and set down the delicate instrument. “Only that she is afraid that the killer might come after her and her children.”

“Do you believe that someone is murdering family members of collaborators?”

“Not at all.” Sherlock threw himself down on the sofa and flung his arm over his eyes.

“I take it then that you don’t suspect her.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock sighed. “The next incredibly dull cousin we will meet with is Charles. Care to join me tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, but only if you tell me why you are investigating a case you find so boring.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “There are aspects of it that have piqued my interest. So you will come?”

“Yes.” John picked up a novel he had left the last time he was there and opened it casually. “I saw Molly today.”

“And?”

“She looked beautiful. Apparently, Todd took her shopping.”

“He is trying to ingratiate himself,” Sherlock surmised coldly.

“I think, Othello, that the green-eyed monster is clouding your judgment,” John chuckled.

“For the last time, I am not jealous!” Sherlock rolled and turned his back to John.

John skimmed a page as he remembered his encounter with Todd earlier that day. Something pricked at his memory. “Sherlock, what exactly do you have against him?”

“He’s too tall.”

“You’re tall.”

“He has too many…teeth.”

The doctor rolled his eyes. “If you have _real_ concerns, why don’t you get some hard evidence? You could do an Internet search on him.”

“I am so glad you are here to tell me to do what I did a week ago.” Although Sherlock’s voice was slightly muffled, John still could hear the sarcasm.

“What did you find?”

Sherlock flopped on his back. “Todd is who he says he is. He was born here, grew up in America. He dropped out of several colleges and has been involved in some dubious get-rich-quick schemes ever since. He is after something from Molly.”

Alarmed, John sat up straighter. “What? She doesn’t have any money.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know yet what his angle is. But Molly’s track record with men proves she does not have good judgment.”

John was tempted to ask if this bad judgment extended to Sherlock but thought better of it. Remembering Molly’s time with Moriarty and its aftermath, John knew he could never allow her to be hurt because he was hesitant to speak up.

“Um, you may have something.”

Sherlock’s head whipped toward him. “What do you know?”

The doctor ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s just a feeling. Nothing scientific or factual.”

“Tell me.” Within seconds Sherlock went from lying on the couch like a spoiled child to swinging his legs over the side and focusing his laser-like attention on John.

“While I was visiting Molly, Todd came by to get the keys to her flat. Said he wanted to make her dinner.”

“He went to her home hours before her shift ended to cook dinner?” Sherlock asked thoughtfully.

“Yes, but there was something off about him,” the doctor admitted. “I can’t put my finger on what bothered me exactly.”

“It’s very important that you remember what triggered your suspicions. You must have observed something that you didn’t even realize at the time. Think, John! What was it?” Sherlock demanded.

“It was something he said: ‘Forever in my heart.’ He said it when he was looking at Molly, but he didn’t say it loud enough for her to hear. He said it to himself. But it was _how_ he said it.” John took a deep breath. “Sherlock, I can’t shake the feeling that you may be right. Todd’s intentions toward Molly aren’t good at all.”

~s~s~s~s~

After dinner, Molly and Todd looked through her old photo album. Todd paused at a snap of Molly’s parents. “I always liked your mum and dad.”

“They were pretty great, weren’t they?” She traced her finger over her mum’s face. “We knew dad was sick, but mum? No warning.”

Todd covered Molly’s hand with his.

“She was a nice lady, even though she gave you the spanking of your life after the infamous jewelry-wearing incident,” he teased.

Molly closed the album and looked into his warm chocolate-brown eyes. “She made sure Inever did it again. A lot of her jewelry we had to sell to help pay for things when dad was ill, but that special necklace went into a safety deposit box after that.”

Todd’s expression changed and he sighed heavily.

“What’s the matter?” Molly asked.

“My glass is empty.” He stood to pour more wine. “Well, we finished off one bottle!”

“I’ve had more than enough,” Molly said. “I have to get up early for work.”

“Did they leave you… I mean are you OK? Financially?” he asked, carefully avoiding looking at Molly directly.

“My parents never really had money. We were comfortable, but it was grandfather who had the money, and my dad would never, ever, in a million years ask for a handout. Of course, when grandfather died, mum inherited it all, and when she died, she left everything to me.” Molly stood and stretched with a yawn, hoping he would take the hint and call it a night. “That is how I got through medical school.”

Todd downed his glass of wine as if it were water. All of a sudden, his whole demeanor became morose.

“It’s not fair,” he said. “Why should we have it so hard?”

Confused, Molly shook her head. “I didn’t have it hard. I had to work for things, but it was worth it.”

He swayed a little. “Why is it some people have the nice cars and the great homes and people like you and I never get that chance?”

Molly walked over to him. “Are you drunk?”

Bleary-eyed, Todd’s face grew red with anger. “I deserve a shot at money!”

Losing his footing, he accidentally knocked Molly’s purse off the table, scattering its contents. “Oh, MollyBug, I’m sorry. Must be a little sloshed.”

“It’s OK,” she said tightly and knelt to pick everything up.

“What are these?” Todd leaned over for the Angel Wings tickets that had fallen under the table.

Molly looked over to see what he was talking about. “Tickets to the Angel Wings Ball, the hospital’s annual fundraiser for children’s cancer research. There’s dinner, dancing, bachelor and bachelorette auctions. That kind of thing.”

“This is the answer to everything!” he exclaimed with a laugh.

Molly’s eyes widened. “How drunk are you?”

“It’s this Saturday!” he exclaimed.

“I know.”

“So do you want to go? Because I want to take you.”

Flustered, Molly tried to determine if this was a genuine or a drunken offer. “I don’t have anything to wear!”

“What about the dress we saw at Harriman’s? That gown you were admiring? It would be brilliant on you. I’ll give you my credit card and you can go buy it. And get some great shoes while you’re at it.”

Molly bit her lower lip hesitantly. “I don’t know. You might not even remember asking me tomorrow morning.”

Todd rushed over to her and knit his fingers through hers. “I want to take you to the ball, Your Highness. You’ll be as beautiful as a queen. Don’t make me beg, Molly.”

Finally she relented. “All right but no more drinking!”

Todd leaned forward and planted a sloppy, wet kiss on her mouth. “I want you to dress to the nines. You will be the most beautiful woman there. Get your hair done. And wear that special necklace.”

Molly placed her hands on his chest to hold him off. “OK, mister, I don’t think you’re up to driving tonight. Why don’t you crash on the couch?”

~s~s~s~s~

“When you said we were meeting with Charles in the morning, you didn’t say you meant four in the morning!” John declared angrily.

Sherlock looked at his friend nonchalantly. “You did not ask.”

The pair walked the empty halls of Parkwood Hospital to Dr. Charles Westmont’s office.

“He has to prep for surgery and this is the only time he could meet. Really, John, sleep is not very important.”

“To you,” his friend muttered.

“Here it is.” Sherlock opened the office door without knocking.

A stocky, balding man looked up from the file he was studying. “Yes?”

“Dr. Westmont, I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. John Watson.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. You’re looking into Great Aunt Gert’s death?”

“Murder,” Sherlock corrected him.

The surgeon looked annoyed but acceded. “Right. Murder. How can I help you?”

“Were you aware of your family’s history in World War II before now?”

“Yes, I knew. Gert didn’t have Alzheimer’s, but she had bouts of dementia. She would say things that led me to believe that when she was a girl, the Morceaux family had helped the Nazis.”

“And you didn’t tell the rest to your family?” John asked.

Charles smiled and stood. “Is that the kind of thing you’d like to go around telling people?”

“How did your brother, Cyrus, and cousin Michelle learn about the different items they claim were stolen from your family?” Sherlock asked.

“That I don’t know, but I’m sure Gertrude must have told them. Michelle was her primary caregiver and Cyrus was over there all the time. I visited from time to time but not often.”

“Why would someone want to murder your aunt?” John inquired.

“She was rich. Certain members of the family stand to inherit a lot of money.”

“You do not seem overly concerned that someone in your family is a murderer,” Sherlock observed.

The doctor shook his head. “We aren’t a close family. Of course, I wouldn’t want the notoriety, but you can’t choose your family.”

“One more question: What have you learned about your French heritage?”

Dr. Westmont visibly brightened. “I can trace the Morceaux family back to Louis XIV’s court! At one time we had a home in Paris and a country house in Bayeaux.”

“Where?” Sherlock rubbed his chin.

“Bayeaux. I’m hoping to travel over there this summer. Now, if you would excuse me, I have to see my patient.”

~s~s~s~s~

A demanding, persistent knocking at her front door roused Molly from a deep sleep. Standing on her tippy toes, Molly peered through the peephole to see Sherlock’s distinctive profile.

“Sherlock?” she whispered as he breezed by her. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“I need to know the name of the village your grandfather stormed in World War II."

“Wh-What?” she stammered, perplexed and groggy. “The name of what?”

“The town in France Grandpa Charlie would always tell you about,” he said forcefully, his blue eyes alight.

“Tilly-sur-Suilles,” she replied.

Following Sherlock into the living room, Molly was surprised to not see Todd sleeping on the couch. After admitting he had had one too many, Todd agreed to sleep it off and leave early the next day. Molly scanned the room until she recognized the familiar sound of her shower running. Curling up in Todd’s discarded-but-still-warm blanket, she lay down on the couch.

“I’m just going to shut my eyes for a few more minutes before I have to get ready for work,” she said.

Paying her no attention, Sherlock began to walk back and forth. The clues of this case, loosely connected by gossamer threads, danced on the periphery of his vision. “France. World War II. Collaborators. Treasure. Todd.”

At the mention of her friend’s name, Molly’s eyes snapped open. “What does Todd have to do with anything?”

“His reappearance in London after so many years away is suspicious.”

“That’s very unfair of you! Todd isn’t a criminal,” Molly ungracefully kicked her way out of the blanket and stumbled to her feet. Sherlock took her by the elbows to steady her.

“How would you know?” He looked at her intently.

Noting a flicker of worry in his glacial eyes, she placed her small hands on his forearms. “Sherlock, he’s not Jim.”

Offering him a small smile, Molly locked eyes with him. For a brief moment they stood this way until he pulled away.

“You are basing your decision to let this man into your life on sentimental childhood memories! You know nothing about who he is now!”

“That isn’t true,” Molly said quietly. “Todd is kind and thoughtful.”

“Is he truthful? Did he tell you about the pyramid scheme in California? Or the real estate scam in Las Vegas?” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse and angry.

“You investigated him?” she asked, upset.

Ignoring her question, he continued, “Are you really this blind and stupid? Why can you not see that he wants something from you?”

Molly’s mouth fell open. “What on earth could Todd possibly want from me?”

Sherlock was about to speak, but he stopped and clinically appraised the small room. Something was different about it. He noticed a man’s jacket draped over the rocking chair. The smell of stale pepperoni permeated the air. Wine bottles littered the table. His studied glance turned to Molly. _Lightweight pink pajamas with sheep jumping over little fences. No dressing gown. Hair mussed. She rushed straight from bed to answer the door._

“Molly, is something wrong?” Todd’s deep voice called from the hall that led to her bathroom. 

She looked over her shoulder. “Everything’s fine.”

That hall also led to Molly’s bedroom.

Hurt and disbelief flashed across the detective’s face, but by the time Molly looked back at him, Sherlock’s expression was an expressionless mask.

“What could Todd want?” he sneered and stared unabashedly at her chest.

Embarrassed, she quickly looked downward to see what was amiss. Sherlock leaned forward and fingered the soft material near the top where a button had slipped out of its hole and the fabric gaped open.

“He obviously wants what you are so freely giving away.”

With a sharp intake of air, Molly recoiled as if Sherlock’s touch had burned her.

“Who do you think you are?” she exclaimed, shocked. “I wouldn’t … we didn’t … But even if we had, that is none of your business!”

If he had ever considered her to be a mouse, Sherlock would learn Molly Hooper was a mouse made of steel. She stood toe to toe with the detective and poked him in the chest.

“You breeze in and out of my lab as if you own the place, and God help me, I let you. But to come into my home and imply things about an area of my life you know _nothing_ about?” Molly’s voice went up an octave.

Even though his best friend wasn’t there, Sherlock heard John’s voice as clearly as if he were standing at his elbow: “Not good. Not good at all.”

“Why must Todd have to want something from me? Why can’t he just like me for me?” Molly’s voice quavered, but she quickly got it under control. “For some reason you don’t like Todd. I get that. But he’s one of my oldest friends, and I’m tired of you acting like a daft prick.”

Molly walked to the front door that Sherlock had, as always, left standing open. “I don’t want you to come over any more. If we see one another in the lab, it will be only for professional reasons.”

“What?” Now it was Sherlock’s turn to be shocked. Molly had never stood up to him before. Molly had never spoken to him like this before. It was like being bitten to death by a butterfly.

“What’s all the racket out here?”

Todd emerged fresh from the shower wearing only one of Molly’s cheerful green-and-blue-striped towels wrapped around his toned waist.

Molly’s heart sank at Todd’s unfortunate timing, but she held her ground. “Goodbye, Sherlock.”

The detective madly, blindly, stormed out into the predawn light.


	5. Chapter 5

Molly made a face as she gazed at her reflection in the dressing room mirror. The flattering lighting, quite unusual in a changing room, even in a store as nice as this, couldn’t disguise the fact that the dress she had on was a mistake. In fact, she wondered what on earth had possessed her to select it in the first place. Maybe it had been the encouraging sales associate, an older woman who wore her glasses on a chain and called her “love.” Whatever the reason, this dusty rose satin with beading on the bodice had a drop-waist that made any woman of Molly’s petite stature look as if she didn’t have any legs.

“Are you coming?” Sarah called from where she sat just outside.

“Not in this one,” Molly replied, fumbling with the zipper. “I think I’ll try on the first one again.”

“Good. That was my favorite,” Sarah said, flipping through a magazine. She felt relieved she had purchased her dress for the ball a month ago, a lovely backless number in black with a fit-and-flare skirt. She smiled, remembering how she had modeled it for John when she first brought it home. He had it off of her in two minutes.

Molly stepped out of the gown and carefully placed it back on its padded hanger. Before adding it to the “No” pile, she gazed at its sweetheart neckline and sighed heavily.

“I can hear you, you know? What’s the matter?” Sarah asked.

“I’m not in the mood for shopping,” Molly grumbled.

“Even for a gown that someone else is paying for from a posh store?”

“Yes, even then.” Hoping she hadn’t insulted Sarah, she quickly added, “But I’m glad you’re here with me. I hate shopping alone.”

“I’m glad you changed your mind about going to the ball.”

“Me, too.” Molly slipped on the crimson floor-length gown that had first caught her eye. “I’m just in a mood.”

“You’d rather be in bed with a bowl of chocolate-chip cookie-dough ice cream?” her friend guessed.

Molly grinned in spite of herself. “The answer to that question is always yes, no matter what the question is.”

She left the dressing room and did a twirl in front of Sarah. From the slightly off-the-shoulder cap sleeves to the deep V neck, the A-line chiffon gown draped gracefully.

“Tell me honestly, how big does my bum look?” Molly asked, trying to get a good look in the mirror over her shoulder. Cinched in at the waist, the dress showed off all of her curves.

“You look perfect. What jewelry will you wear?” Sarah scrutinized her carefully.

“The only real jewelry I have is a pair of diamond studs and my Nana’s necklace. I think they’d look quite nice with this. If it’s all right with you, I’ll swing by the bank after this to pick them up.”

Molly faced the mirror and wistfully took in her appearance. She wanted to see someone staring back at her who was cool, sophisticated, and strong, like the glamorous movie stars in the black-and-white films she loved. Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn—a woman who could tell off Sherlock Holmes in the morning, maintain her composure all day at work, and not collapse into tears that evening. Instead the person staring back at her looked like she was playing dress up in her mother’s clothes.

Speculating on the cause of Molly’s obvious distress, Sarah stood behind her. “Don’t let Sherlock ruin this for you. From everything you told me, you were right to stand up for yourself. You deserve to be treated better than that.”

Molly bit her lower lip. “I know.”

Sarah gave her a hug. “He acted like a mean little boy. And if it makes you feel any better, John told me Sherlock has been ‘in a mood,’ too. I’m sure deep down he is sorry.”

The young pathologist managed a weak smile. “It still hurts though.”

“That Sherlock would think you jumped into bed with Todd?”

“It’s more than that.” Molly pulled a tissue out of the box on the table and wiped her eyes. “I’ve tried to make a family with people who know me and care about me, like you, John, Greg … and, I thought, Sherlock. I thought he knew me best, but he acted like a complete stranger.”

“Hmm.” Sarah paused thoughtfully. “You know how he is cut off from his emotions to the point he doesn’t even recognize what he’s feeling, right?”

Molly smiled knowingly. “Of course.”

“Have you ever considered that could be what’s behind how he’s acting?”

“How do you mean?”

“You said when Todd came in your lab that first day, Sherlock acted like a real arse to you, more than his usual rude self. “

“That’s right.”

“And the next time you saw him was at your flat, and he said you were naïve about Todd and practically accused you of throwing yourself at him.”

Sniffling, Molly nodded her head.

“Let me ask you something: If this were any other man besides Sherlock Holmes, how would you describe the way he was acting?”

“I would say he was jealous.” Molly suddenly laughed out loud. For a good two minutes, she giggled, would get under control, then start laughing again. Finally, she said, “But this is Sherlock we’re talking about!”

Molly turned and went back in the changing room. “You’re crazy, but at least you cheered me up!”

Digging in her purse for her mobile, Sarah saw she had a new text from John. It said he would be late again. Sherlock was dragging him to all parts of London on the Moore case. Disappointed, Sarah typed in a reply.

“Feel like grabbing a bite to eat after we go to the bank?” she called.

“Sounds lovely.” Molly emerged from behind the curtain. She had changed back into her khakis and lime green jumper with the daisies on the pockets. In her hands was the crimson gown. “You’re right. Sherlock is not going to ruin the ball for me. I’m going to let Todd buy me this dress, and I’m going to have a wonderful time. In fact, I can’t wait for Saturday to come!”

~s~s~s~s~

“What is that noise?”

It was the first time Sherlock had spoken in the last hour. John swiftly pulled out his mobile.

“It’s my alert. You know, a normal musical tone that means I have received a text from Sarah, unlike the obscene sound your phone makes when you get a text from The Woman.”

Sherlock didn’t bother replying. Instead he stared out the cab’s window as they passed Piccadilly Circus and chewed absentmindedly on his thumbnail.

“It’s from Sarah.” John scrolled down. “She’s shopping with Molly for a gown and now they are going to get Molly’s jewelry from the bank and then out to eat.”

At the mention of Molly’s name, the detective roused from his black state of mind. “A gown for what?”

“I told you about the Angel Wings Ball that is this Saturday. The one Sarah has helped plan? Fundraiser? Cancer research? Does any of this sound familiar?”

“You are assuming I filed that information.”

John fought off another wave of anger toward his best friend, one of many that had threatened to overtake him ever since Sarah had confided what Sherlock had said to Molly at her flat. Part of the good doctor wanted to point out how stupid that behavior had been while pounding Sherlock upside the head; the other part of him wanted to carefully explain to his clueless friend what was clearly going on between him and the pathologist.

Instead he murmured, “Forgive for my asininity.”

Sherlock smiled slightly. “You are correct in a way. Even though I have finite space for data, I do recall almost everything I store in my mind palace.”

“So you do remember I told you that Molly and Todd are going to the Angel Wings Ball with Sarah and me?”

As soon as the words had left his mouth, John regretted them. Sherlock’s smile disappeared in a scowl as he slouched further down into his coat and scarf.  The rest of the cab ride was silent.

~s~s~s~s~

Michelle Moore Douglas might have been considered an attractive woman if she smiled more often, but she had let a lifetime of caring for elderly relatives drain her of energy and happiness. Frown lines dug furrows on either side of her mouth, pulling her whole face down in sadness. Sherlock wasn’t at all surprised that she spoke in a monotone voice.

“Gert told me on several occasions that her mother wore these with a matching diamond bracelet and necklace,” Michelle said as she handed Sherlock an antique black velvet box containing diamond earrings set in yellow gold. “I did some research about the jeweler’s mark on the back of them and learned they were part of a set. See?”

The middle-aged woman reached for a red clothbound book and opened it to a specific page. John shifted in his overstuffed chair to get a better view. The faded picture clearly featured the very same earrings Sherlock held along with a stunning triple-row diamond cuff bracelet in a crisscross design and a diamond-and-ruby pendant necklace.

“That’s when I knew the things Gert told me about the family being rich were true and not just the ramblings of dementia. I knew that the rest of this set had to have been stolen.”

John stirred the weak tea he had been offered. The scented sitting room was filled with pictures, knickknacks, and embroidered pillows that reminded him of his grandmother.

“Your ancestors fled France and left their valuables behind?” he asked.

Michelle shook her head. “They were away at the time of the invasion. They took a very lengthy and circuitous route to London and became the Moore family. Great Aunt Gert’s mom had taken the earrings with her but had left the necklace and bracelet at home. So, those jewels and other jewelry, the paintings, anything of value were stolen. I’ve spent the last couple of years documenting every item she told me about so I could prove provenance and reclaim what was ours.”

“And your cousin, Cyrus? What was his role in this?” Sherlock asked.

“He’s a whiz on the computer. He helped me with the research.” A rare smile lit up Michelle’s face. “Would you like to see the notebook I put together with all our documentation?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied.

After she had left the room, John leaned in toward his friend. “I don’t see how any of this is helping us solve the murder.”

“Everything is related,” Sherlock whispered and stood as Michelle came back in the room. “Ah, Mrs. Douglas. May I borrow this notebook? I will return it tomorrow.”

~s~s~s~s~

With his laptop open, John worked at the table in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street, looking up information as Sherlock read through Michelle’s book. The consulting detective already had committed every photo, every document in Michelle’s notebook to memory. It was now late at night, and after a long period of silence, John stood and stretched.

“Sherlock?” He found his friend now sitting cross-legged on the couch.

“Leave,” Sherlock commanded.

“Why?”

“Mind palace, John. You know the drill.” The detective already had closed his eyes.

~s~s~s~s~

The next day, Mycroft Holmes’ assistant, Anthea, popped her head into his office.

“Sir?”

“Yes?” he answered slowly, not bothering to look up from his laptop. His lack of attention went unnoticed by Anthea; she hadn’t bothered to look up from her mobile.

“Sherlock texted. Wants all information we can gather on a John Turner.”

Mycroft paused his reading and performed a quick sort through his own mind palace. John Turner was nowhere to be found.

“Ask him if John Turner is related to the Morceaux case. If he is, then please comply with my brother’s request.”

Anthea shot off a text and immediately received one in return.

“He says he’s positive John Turner will help him solve his case,” she informed her boss and closed the door behind her.

Mycroft mulled over her words. Adjusting his reading glasses, he turned back to the screen. “Yes, but Sherlock did not specify _which_ case.”


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft Holmes regarded the door to his brother’s rooms with mild curiosity. A dark necktie was looped over the doorknob while the door itself stood slightly ajar. If this flat had belonged to any other man, Mycroft would have thought the person was sending mixed signals; however, since this was Sherlock, he knew his younger brother didn’t consider the tie or the door worth paying attention to.

Pushing his way in, Mycroft found Sherlock stretched out on his bed staring at the ceiling.

“You have my file?” the detective asked.

Mycroft started to hand over the manila envelope, but pulled it back just out of Sherlock’s reach.

“You need to tell me if John Turner is indeed related to the Morceaux case.”

“He is.” Sherlock sat up and snatched the envelope from Mycroft’s hands.

“And the text message we received threatening to kill collaborators in England?”

“Have no fear, no one is running around murdering geriatric Nazi sympathizers. No one ever was.” Sherlock pulled a stack of papers from the envelope and began reading. “Goodbye, Mycroft.”

Determined to get some answers, Mycroft sat next to his brother, knowing how much it would annoy him. It worked. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stopped reading.

“What do you want now?”

“You know who the murderer is.”

“Yes.” Sherlock sounded utterly bored. “Very simple, really.”

“If this is such a pedestrian murder case, then why didn’t you toss it back to Scotland Yard?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock stood and walked out into the living room. “I texted Lestrade and he has picked up the person for questioning. As for the other aspects of this case, I had my reasons for wanting to find answers.”

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully and turned to leave. “This John Turner. You do know who he is, correct?”

“Goodbye, Mycroft.”

~s~s~s~s~

What the guests attending St. Bart’s Angel Wings Ball first noticed about the Astor Hotel’s beautiful Pourtales Room was the abundant flowers. Spilling over cut-glass vases on the center of each table, white hydrangeas, large pink roses, delicate baby’s breath, and green ivy tumbled onto mirrored trays. Adding to the atmosphere, small white candles in rose-colored votives flickered in the low lighting.

Everything about the room said elegance. The blue _fleur-de-lis_ patterned carpet contrasted dramatically with the golden chair covers. Cream-colored walls stretched skyward to intricate crown molding and a light blue ceiling dotted with large crystal chandeliers. Tall white birch wood branches delicately draped with twinkling little lights stood in golden containers at every entrance On a stage in the front of the room a small orchestra played pleasant dinner music as the first course was served.

“Sarah, your committee did a fantastic job. The room is beautiful! And I love these napkin holders.” Molly held up a crystal angel on a clear ring. She, Todd, John, and Sarah sat at a table to one side of the rectangular dance floor with department head Dr. Singh and his wife and two nurses from the maternity ward.

Sarah leaned over and whispered, “We were scattered, but it came together, didn’t it? By the way, you look gorgeous.”

Molly wore her hair down. She had decided to do a smoky, dramatic eye and keep the rest of her makeup neutral, except for pink lip gloss. But what tied the look together was the stunning ruby pendant necklace she wore. The smaller diamonds surrounding the oval stone glittered at every angle.

“You aren’t looking too shabby either!” Molly returned the compliment. “Your hair is brilliant.”

For a little change, Sarah had added blonde highlights, which glimmered in the candlelight.

“What are we, chopped liver?” John pretended to be hurt. Both women laughed and looked at their respective dates in their standard black tuxedos.

“Passable,” Sarah teased and kissed him on the cheek, careful not to leave any evidence of her full red lipstick.

“Not bad,” Molly said and looked at Todd fondly.

He put his arm around the back of her chair. “I don’t deserve to be here with such a beautiful woman.”

Molly blushed as she remembered Todd’s face when he first saw her at her flat. He had practically gasped in pleasure. From that moment on, he had been attentive, seeing to her every need and want. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was acting as if she really were the queen, but the things Sherlock had accused Todd of lingered in her memory. With a slight shake of her head, Molly focused on her meal.

“So, the program says that after the speakers, there will be dancing.” John added with a sigh, “I suppose you expect me to dance?”

“That’s right,” Sarah confirmed. “I wasn’t involved in selecting the music, but they are supposed to be very good. After that, Daria Montgomery from the hospital board will emcee the bachelor auction, and then Mike Samford will take over and run the bachelorette auction.”

Todd pulled a rose from the flower arrangement and presented it to Molly. “I am so glad to be here with you, MollyBug. Are you having a good time?”

She considered his question silently. She was with good friends in a beautiful setting wearing a lovely gown and enjoying a wonderful meal. She should be ecstatic, but instead her heart felt heavy. Even though she was still angry with Sherlock, she would have given anything to see him sitting in Todd’s place. Feeling guilty, she banished that thought and accepted the rose.

“Yes, Todd. This evening is perfect.”

~s~s~s~s~s

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade stood next to Sherlock Holmes as they watched Cyrus Westmont through the two-way mirror fidget nervously at the interview table.

“You were right, Sherlock,” Lestrade said. “He had the poison hidden under his kitchen sink. Not bright, that one. He has already confessed.”

“The whole family is a disappointment, as families tend to be,” Sherlock said.

“How did you know he was the murderer?”

Sherlock smiled. “He is the only one with the computer abilities to send an anonymous text message to the government. He also stood to inherit quite a bit of money and jewelry from his aunt.”

“Well, thanks for your help on this,” Lestrade said.

“I need to ask him a question.”

Lestrade looked at him strangely but agreed.

Cyrus wasn’t as stocky as his older brother, but he clearly had the same receding hairline.

“Who are you?” he asked miserably when Sherlock entered the room.

“It doesn’t matter who I am. I only have one question. Your great aunt’s jewelry. You were to inherit the diamond earrings. What did you know about the other pieces in the set?”

Cyrus’ shoulders slumped. “Nothing really. Michelle did research and found out all about them. I tracked down the bracelet and was in contact with someone who wanted to sell me the necklace. I was going to make a fortune with the set.”

Sherlock leaned over the man. “Who has the necklace?”

“I don’t know. But he is here in London.”

~s~s~s~s~

John, it turned out, was a good dancer; Todd, however, wasn’t. After a few turns on the dance floor, Todd returned to his chair with a good-natured laugh. Since Mike Samford was dancing with Sarah, John escorted Molly out onto the floor.

“Todd seems like a nice bloke,” John said, trying to avoid the topic—the person—that was on their minds.

Molly appreciated John’s gesture and gave his hand an extra squeeze. “I know Sherlock has his doubts, but Todd is a great guy.”

After the dance, they rejoined their dates at the table only to be overtaken my Mike Samford before they could sit down.

“Janette Oldmeyer has taken ill and had to go home. I need to find a replacement for her in the bachelorette auction. Molly, would you do it?” Mike mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.

Molly cringed. “Mike, I’d love to help, really I would, but I can’t.”

“Please? You would be getting me out of a bind,” Mike pleaded.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said, embarrassed.

“Why not?” Todd nudged her. “I’ll bid on you. And I will win you!”

“See, Molly, there’s nothing to it!” Mike exclaimed. “And it’s for charity!”

Nervously, she relented. “All right, but where do I need to stand? And when?”

Mike pointed to the stage. “Come with me, and I’ll show you where you’ll need to go. And I need to get a little information on you, too.”

As they left the table, Todd turned to John and Sarah. “I think I’ll step out and have a smoke before Molly’s big moment.”

 John smiled at his girlfriend and took her into an embrace. “I am very proud of you and all the work you put into tonight.”

Sarah hugged him tightly. At that moment she noticed a familiar tall man walk into the ballroom. Even though he wore a wool coat over a dark suit and purple button up, he looked more handsome and refined than many of the formally dressed men in the room. Sarah dropped her head onto John’s shoulder. Why did Sherlock Holmes have the uncanny ability to ruin her time alone with John? She practically growled in frustration.

John pulled back and searched her face anxiously. “What’s the matter?”

She gestured. “Look who’s here.”

John whirled to see his former flat mate approach them with purpose. The detective thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his long, dark coat. “Where is Molly?

“With Mike Samford,” John said. “Why are you here?”

Sherlock scanned the group standing in front of the stage until he spied the young pathologist. Then he did a double take. As Molly listened to Mike intently, her long brown hair fell in a cascade of loose curls reaching almost to the slender curve of her waist. Her form-fitting crimson gown flowed elegantly as she followed Mike backstage.

“Sherlock, why are you here?” John repeated more forcefully.

“I … I,” he mumbled, distracted. Quickly recovering, he turned to Sarah. “You texted John that Molly needed to pick up her jewelry. From where?”

“National Bank. She had to get her grandmother’s necklace out of the safe deposit box.”

Sherlock looked like a smug cat with a triumphant gleam in his eye. He took a piece of paper out of his coat pocket and unfolded it in front of the couple.

“Is this the necklace Molly is wearing tonight?” he asked, pointing to the photocopy.

Sarah’s mouth fell open. “It is!”

“I don’t understand,” John said, staring blankly at the color copy.

“Where is Todd?” Sherlock demanded.

“Out having a fag.”

“Watson, you must come with me. Todd is going to try to steal the necklace.”

Sarah and John exchanged a quick glance. She patted him on the arm. “Go on.”

As he and Sherlock hurried out of the room, countless questions rattled through John’s head like ice cubes in a tall glass. “How can Molly have that necklace? Why did Todd even know it existed before tonight? And what about the Moore family?”

Circling around the grand piano in the center of the lobby, the pair passed through the gray marble foyer and headed to the revolving doors that led outside.

“The answers to all of your questions relate to one person: John Turner.”

 “Who’s that?” John asked.

 “Molly’s grandfather.”


	7. Chapter 7

A steady rain began, as Sherlock looked both ways down the sidewalk. There was no sign of Todd. 

“Sherlock!” John stood at the front steps, signaling for his friend to hurry back. “He’s in here”

The pair rushed across the polished lobby and walked into the loo.

Todd stood at the gilded sink in surprise. “John! And…Sherlock? What are you doing here?”

“Keeping you away from Molly Hooper,” Sherlock said with determination.

“Really? Because she wants to be with me.” If Todd was angry, he didn’t show it. 

“Not after tonight.”

Todd looked up in the mirror and gave Sherlock a crooked smile. “You really aren’t as clever as you think you are. In fact, you’re just a jerk.”

“No, I am much smarter. You, on the other hand, are stupider than I imagined.” Sherlock’s piercing blue eyes darkened in anger.

“Listen, Holmes, Molly may put up with your crap, but I don’t have to.” Todd finished drying his hands. “Good evening, gentlemen.“

Sherlock’s baritone voice was as smooth as black velvet. “ _À jamais dans mon Coeur_.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” All traces of charm and friendliness gone, Todd crossed his arms across his chest. 

“Yes, you do,” Sherlock said confidently. “It is the reason you came back into Molly’s life. It is the reason you are here tonight.”

When Todd didn’t answer, John felt his heart begin to speed up. He knew the younger man felt cornered. And cornered people could be dangerous.

~s~s~s~s~

The bachelor auction had been wildly successful and was over quickly. Now it was time for the bachelorettes.

Molly nervously licked her lips. “How do I look?”

“Lovely,” Sarah replied reassuringly as the two stood near their table.

“Todd promised he’d bid on me.” Molly anxiously scanned the crowded ballroom. “I hope he gets back in time.”

“Don’t worry.” Sarah reached for her wine glass. John had shared his concerns about Todd with her, but she had hoped he was wrong. Now with Sherlock’s appearance and accusations, she felt slightly ill. Nervously, she took a sip.  “Everything will be fine.”

The microphone on stage crackled to life as Mike Samford approached it. “All right, it’s time for the highlight of the evening! Get out your checkbooks, gentlemen, because you are going to have the chance to bid on some wonderful bachelorettes!”

“Wish me luck!” Molly cringed and headed toward the stage.

Sarah’s eyes darted to the exit. There was no sign of Todd, Sherlock, or John.

As Molly and the other women gathered backstage, she giggled nervously to Andrea from accounting, “I’ve never done anything like this!”

“It’s all for a good cause! Gotta go!”

Molly watched as the confident blonde in royal blue did her best Marilyn Monroe walk over to Mike, who clearly was enjoying his role as emcee.

“Now who wouldn’t love to go out with Andrea Spencer? She likes bowling, rugby, and cooking. Come on, guys, this is your ideal woman. Shall we start the bidding at one hundred?”

~s~s~s~s~

Sherlock spoke rapid fire. “When you came to England to settle Rosalie McCarthy’s estate, you claim to have read your grandfather’s journals. I have done a little reading myself. On John Turner. Recognize the name? He was Molly’s grandfather.

“I bet you didn't know Turner spent his youth committing petty crimes, which are all well documented. When he joined the British Army, he continued his nefarious activities. In the Battle of Normandy, in a little town called Bayeaux near Tilly-sur-Suilles, he robbed the abandoned home of a wealthy merchant named Morceaux and got away with a cache of jewelry.

“He survived the war with the loot, and God knows how he pulled it off, but somehow he came home with it. Then he met Molly's Gran, whom I believe was as good and sweet as Molly is. He changed his ways. He became a proper business owner. He married, bought property. Then came along the one person who could take it all away: your grandfather, Charlie McCarthy. He had been in Turner's unit. He either had figured out Turner's crime or perhaps had been in on it from the beginning. However it came about, your grandfather was greedy and wanted more.

"What did dear Charlie ask of John Turner to ensure his silence? A cottage to live in rent-free for life. Regular payments of hush money. No wonder Charlie often regaled everyone with war stories. Whenever he mentioned Tilly-sur-Suilles, your grandfather was reminding Turner that he could expose this secret at any moment.”

"Blackmail is an ugly thing," John said quietly. Todd’s tanned face looked a shade paler.

Sherlock began to pace. “Charlie even tried to match his son—your father—and Molly’s mother so the two families would always be tied together, but John convinced his daughter to leave the village to get an education.”

Todd tried to muster some bravado. “Even if all that were true, it’s in the past. It has nothing to do with right now or me.”

“But the past does impact the present. It affected you when you went through those journals, because you were able to piece together that Charlie had leeched off of Molly’s grandfather for years. But then you read a most interesting fact. There was one item that John refused to give to Charlie or to sell at all: a diamond and ruby necklace. Instead he gave it to his beloved wife. Your grandfather knew it existed. He had seen her wear it on various special occasions when the two families got together. You yourself remembered Molly's mum having that same necklace.

“I believe you are as greedy and self-serving as your grandfather.” Sherlock held up the piece of paper from his coat pocket. “From your grandfather’s description of it in his diary and your own memory of what it looked like, you did some research and discovered this necklace was part of a very valuable set, _À jamais dans mon Coeur_ —Forever in My Heart. You learned it had disappeared in the war.

“Assuming that Molly would have inherited everything after her mum died, you began an Internet search for her and one of the first results was a link\ to a newspaper article covering her recent release from the hospital. The picture accompanying that article had been taken at an Angel’s Wings Ball when Molly wore this very same diamond and ruby necklace. That's when you formulated your plan to romance her and steal the necklace.”

~s~s~s~s~

Molly giggled as Mike auctioned off Andrea and the others one by one amidst clapping and cheering. A wonderful amount of money had been raised so far and everyone was having fun. She hoped Todd would be willing to pay a respectable amount for her.

Mike glanced at the index cards on which he had made all of his notes. “Will you please put your hands together and welcome to the stage one of my favorite people? The youngest female pathologist ever in the history of St. Bart’s, Dr. Molly Hooper!”

~s~s~s~s~

“What were you going to do?” John asked angrily. “Sweep her off to a hotel suite tonight and when she fell asleep, make off with the necklace?"

Sherlock looked pained. “No, John, Molly would not sleep with someone she had no real feelings for. Todd would have simply found some way to steal it and disappear forever before she could return it to the safe deposit box at the bank on Monday.”

Todd stared at his shoes. Slowly, he looked up and grinned slyly. “Look, you caught me, OK? No one got hurt, there’s been no crime, and so I’ll just be on my way.”

As he reached for the door, the doctor blocked his way.

“You don’t think Molly will be hurt?” John asked angrily.

Todd tapped his toe in time with the Muzak playing softly in the background. “Hey, we all have to grow up sometime, right? But tell me before I go, how did you figure it out?”

“Your activities tied in with another case I was working,” Sherlock stated.

“You said ‘Forever in My Heart’ at the lab when I was there,” said John.

“When you first arrived, you recalled an incident involving baking a cake that turned you off to cooking forever. And yet you volunteered to make Molly a home-cooked dinner hours before she got off work. You did that to gain access to her flat and search at your leisure for the necklace,” Sherlock explained. “I know you did not cook for her because the next morning there was evidence that you had had pizza.”

Todd laughed crudely. “When you showed up, you thought we had slept together, didn’t you? We didn’t. Not my type, you know? Molly might have been a bit of fun in the sack, but she’s not really built…”

In a fury, Sherlock flew across the tiled floor and pinned Todd to the wall, his forearm jammed under the man's chin.

"Molly Hooper is lovelier, smarter, and truer than you will ever know,” he hissed. “Now listen to me very carefully: You are not to speak to her, approach her, or have contact with her again whatsoever. If you do, I will make you pay."

Todd struggled under Sherlock’s grasp, and for a moment John thought they might come to blows, but then Todd backed down, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

“Send Molly a text right now saying that you’ve gotten an urgent call and have to return to America. Tonight.” John’s voice was stone cold as Sherlock released Todd.

" _You_ can tell her whatever you want." Todd pulled his bow tie loose. "I don't care."

"What do you mean?" John demanded.

"I mean, tell her whatever story you'd like. Or tell her the truth. But I'm out of here."

John made a move to stop Todd, but Sherlock shook his head. “Let him go, Watson.”

Todd sidestepped John and hurried out the door.

“What are we going to tell Molly?” asked the doctor.

The detective looked wearily at his friend. “The truth, of course.”

“You can’t tell her that the grandfather she adored was a thief and that Todd only pretended to like her so he could steal the necklace!” a horrified John argued. “After Moriarty, this will kill her!”

Sherlock briskly adjusted his cuffs. “Knowing the truth is preferable to living a lie.”

“No, no, not in this case,” John said adamantly. “You can’t do this to her. All right? Tell me you aren’t going to tell her about Todd!”

Sherlock avoided his friend’s imploring look. “She cannot go on believing that he is this ideal man from her past. She needs to know I was right about him.”

John regarded his friend in disappointment. “Is that it? You are so jealous that you want to totally smash Todd’s image in her eyes, no matter how hurt she will be? She’s going to be heartbroken.”

Sherlock pushed open the restroom door and strode past the grand piano, back toward the ballroom. Grabbing him by the elbow, John pulled Sherlock to a stop.

“You care about Molly in a different way than you care about me or Mrs. Hudson. And admitting to yourself that you care isn’t a bad thing. Letting love into your life isn’t a bad thing. And when you love someone, you want to keep that person safe.”

Sherlock angrily jerked away. “Your habit of following me like a Greek chorus and telling me how to behave is not needed or welcome.”

“Well, someone has to tell you how normal people act!”

“I am not like normal people!” Sherlock shouted.

“You stupid, selfish git.” John walked past him in disgust. “I can promise you one thing: If you insist on telling Molly, she won’t end up hating Todd. She’ll end up hating you.”

~s~s~s~s~

Mike cleared his throat as Molly peered out into the crowd, only able to see vague silhouettes. Her face felt stiff from maintaining a bright smile.

“Molly enjoys musicals, good books, and if you’re lucky, she’ll figure out what ails you before she sees you in a professional capacity!” Mike paused as everyone laughed. “So let’s start the bidding out a little higher this time, shall we? Do I hear an offer of two hundred?”

“Two hundred!” a man yelled from the back of the room.

Molly did a little curtsy in that person’s direction. She couldn’t make out anyone in the darkness.

“We have two hundred. What about two hundred and fifty?”

“Here!”

She smiled in the direction of Dr. Matthews, an elderly pediatrician who always said hello to her in the cafeteria.

“Three hundred?” Mike asked, relishing the drama. “Really, gentlemen? For a beauty like Molly Hooper, I must have three hundred.”

Embarrassed, Molly ‘s cheeks flushed red. Where was Todd?

The first man boomed out, “Yup!”

“Thank you, sir. Do I hear three hundred and fifty? Anyone?”

As the room became silent, Molly strained to hear Todd’s voice but it didn’t come.

“All right, going once, going twice…”

“Two-thousand pounds!”

Molly gasped.

The microphone made a terrible high-pitched squeal as Mike fumbled it in surprise. The audience erupted into wild applause as the winning bidder made his way toward the stage from the back of the room. Her stomach doing flip-flops, Molly’s eyes grew wide as she watched the tall figure stride closer.

Mike smiled broadly. “Let’s make some room on the dance floor, ladies and gentleman. The highest bidder of the evening and Dr. Hooper will lead us in the last waltz. Sherlock Holmes, come claim your pathologist!”


	8. Chapter 8

Over the years, Molly had compiled in her mind a detailed list of Sherlock fantasies that she would sometimes indulge in when she was bored or if he came into her lab looking particularly handsome. She had decided waltzing with Sherlock at a ball fell between his cooking her breakfast and his feeding her grapes. Having this dream actually unfold before her eyes was something she wanted to savor.

But Molly also had a strong and equally compelling need to know how he ended up bidding on her. Sherlock, however, wasn’t revealing anything.

From the moment he had vaulted onto the stage to, as Mike Samford had put it “claim his pathologist,” Sherlock hadn’t met Molly’s questioning look. He had simply taken her by the hand and led her down the few steps to the empty parquet dance floor where they waited for the music to begin. When the orchestra played the first dreamy strains of Johann Strauss Jr.’s _Vienna Waltz_ , Sherlock had held her closer than was the customary form. The warm hand firmly pressed on her back left no doubt that he was leading.

~s~s~s~s~

Sarah had stared agape with the rest of the audience. She was both amazed that he had bid on Molly and worried for her friend’s tender heart. 

Sensing John silently sliding into the chair behind her, Sarah leaned back. “Todd?”

“Gone,” John reported, still wishing he could have punched the guy.

“Was he really going to steal Molly’s necklace?”

“Yes.”

“Poor Molly,” she said, closing her eyes.

John wrapped his arms around her from behind as they watched Sherlock escort Molly onto the dance floor.

“This will either turn out very, very good or very, very bad,” John predicted quietly.

“He doesn’t do things in half measures, does he?”

“Sherlock? Never,” John scoffed.

~s~s~s~s~

Molly hadn’t danced since a friend’s wedding two years earlier. Feeling self-conscious under the unwavering gaze of her coworkers, she tried to remember the steps and not make a fool out of herself waltzing with Sherlock Bloody Holmes. Luckily for her, the masterful way he guided her around the floor made them both look elegant.

“You dance,” Molly managed, her left hand resting just below his right shoulder.

“Yes,” he replied, keeping his head turned.

“You dance very well,” she observed.

“Thank you.”

Gradually, more couples joined them and became part of the colorful kaleidoscope of swirling images and sounds. One-two-three, one-two-three, they wheeled and spun in clockwise circles. Still, Sherlock refused to meet Molly’s searching stare. Well, she would make him look at her. Giving his left hand a painful squeeze, she finally caught his eyes, those beautiful eyes that held so many different shades of blue and green, like the clear waters of the Caribbean.

But what amazed her was the actual emotion she read in them. Over the years, she had gotten fairly good at deducing his emotional state, even when he tried to hide it. And what she observed tonight took her breath away. He was worried about her. He cared about her. No, it was more than that. It was …

“I’m dizzy,” she whispered as their eyes locked.

“What did you say?” Sherlock held Molly closer.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Don’t stop …”

And he didn’t let her go but kept her dancing into the night, spinning and twirling as colors all ran together and movements became poetry. When the music finally faded into a memory, she slowly slipped out of his strong embrace.  

“Why did you bid on me?” she asked, a hopeful, tremulous smile ghosting on her lips.

Sherlock wanted to look away. Feeling Molly in his arms had stirred something within him, something he had buried long ago. Those emotions raged behind an inscrutable mask as he decided whether to tell her the truth about Todd. When he finally did speak, his tone was even and calculated.

“Todd asked me to bid on you. I was nearby, so it was not a problem to drop in and save you from an awkward moment.”

Molly felt as if she had been sucker punched. “Why didn’t he bid himself?”

Sherlock could always think quickly on his feet. "He said to send you his regrets, but he had to leave unexpectedly."

"Oh," Molly said in a small voice. She glanced to where John and Sarah sat. Their sympathetic expressions told her they knew. Her face turned beet red.

She cleared her throat. "Where did Todd go?"

"He had to fly home to America. Tonight," Sherlock said, wishing he were anywhere else at that moment.

Reeling, Molly protested, "What? He wouldn't leave without saying goodbye!"

Sherlock’s hatred of Todd was growing exponentially. "He did say to tell you that he admires you greatly and is very sorry if you are upset."

Exhaling a ragged breath, Molly woodenly walked back to the table and picked up her small beaded evening bag.

“Are you all right?” Sarah asked, concerned.

“No.” Molly felt utterly humiliated. As a white-hot anger began to boil within her, she blasted it toward Sherlock. "It was you, wasn't it?"

Startled, he shook his head. "What?"

"You did something or ... or said something wretched to Todd, didn't you? He isn’t the type of man to get a girl’s hopes up and then leave her flat. You had to have done something awful to make him leave. Tell me what it was!"

His fists clenched at his sides, Sherlock’s temper flared, but he maintained his icy control. "I am sorry."

With a cry, Molly stormed out of the room.

“Molly, wait!” Sarah weaved through the crowd after her friend.

John tried to sound comforting. “You did the right thing.”

“Really?” The detective glared at his best friend. “Because it appears as if instead of hating that _criminal_ , she now hates me! According to you, that was not going to happen.”

“Molly is hurt right now,” John began.

“Which is the result of my ‘doing the right thing,’ of ‘caring.’” He spat the last word bitterly. Unaccustomed to the strong feelings surging through him, Sherlock struggled to lock them back into the box he always ignored.

John, too, had recognized the same unprecedented display of emotions Molly had witnessed. Seeing this brief window of openness snapping shut, John stood directly in front of Sherlock. “Don’t do this. You do care about Molly, and you know she could never hate you. My God, Sherlock, she loves you.”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. “Is that more of your sage wisdom?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, John wondered if the front desk had any aspirin. “Sarah will bring Molly back, and you two will get this sorted.”

~s~s~s~s~

Molly waited impatiently as a doorman hailed her a cab. The rain had subsided into a dreary, continuous mist that blew in her face and blended with her tears. Sarah burst from the hotel a few seconds behind her.

“Don’t go off like this,” she pleaded as she rubbed her bare arms to ward off the cold.

Molly shivered in the dampness, her mind racing a hundred miles a minute. Every electrical impulse in her body screamed at her to get out of there. “Maybe I can still catch Todd at his hotel!”

Before Sarah could say another word, a cab door was opened and Molly Hooper left into an unfriendly London night.

Sarah hurried to rejoin John and Sherlock as all the other guests of the Angel’s Wings Ball streamed out of the Pourtales Room. Feeling jostled, Sarah was tempted to elbow a few of them, but instead she nodded courteously, her smile strained.

The two men stood by the table looking grim. As she approached, both silently asked her the same question.

“She jumped in a cab and is heading to Todd’s hotel,” Sarah reported.

John’s face fell in disappointment, while Sherlock’s became livid.

“Why were you unable to stop her?” he snapped. “That con man may still try to steal the necklace or do something to Molly. Of all the stupid …”

“Shut up!” John barked and slid his arm around Sarah’s waist.

“Go after her,” she said calmly to Sherlock. “Don’t tell me you don’t know exactly where Todd is staying.”

Sherlock nodded curtly in agreement. “The Lennox across town.”

~s~s~s~s~

Because of the weather, the cab traveled extremely slowly, or at least it felt that way to Molly who anxiously drummed her fingers on her knee. As long as she kept focused on Todd, she could block out the auction, the waltz, those eyes.

When they rounded the corner to Todd’s mid-priced hotel, Molly tossed some notes at the driver and jumped out before the cab had even come to a complete stop. Running to the main desk, Molly knew she looked disheveled, but she didn’t care.  

“Can you tell me if Todd McCarthy has checked out?” she asked.

The woman behind the counter looked her up and down. “I’m sorry, miss, but it’s against our policy to release information about our guests.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Molly saw Todd step off the lift, suitcase in hand. He had changed into jeans and an off-white long-sleeved T-shirt.

"Todd!" she choked out.

Eyeing her warily, he kept walking across the lobby. "Look, do me a favor and stay away, all right? I got Holmes’ message loud and clear."

Molly kept pace with him, only slipping in her heels once. “It doesn’t matter what Sherlock told you, because he is—”

“It does matter,” Todd interrupted as he set down his luggage to put on his coat. “I don’t fancy having him on my trail for eternity, or whatever it was he threatened he’d do to me if I came near you again. The man is certifiable. And come to think of it, so is John Watson! So let them both know your showing up here was your idea. I’m staying away from you and that necklace from now on.”

"Wh-what?” Molly stopped dead in her tracks. “What about Gran's necklace?"

Todd stared shamelessly at the glittering gemstones lying against her smooth skin. "That little bauble you’re wearing is worth a small fortune, enough money for a man to set up a comfortable life for himself in California. No wonder your mum beat your bum when you wore it outside as a tiara!”

Involuntarily taking a step back, Molly covered the necklace with her hand. “I don’t understand.”

Frustrated over what could have been, Todd ran his hand over his short-cropped hair. “I got myself into a bit of a bind. Owe a lot of money to a lot of people over a deal that went south. I googled you and saw a picture of you from the newspaper wearing that necklace. I remembered it from when we were kids.”

Molly stared in disbelief. “This whole time, it was the necklace?”

Todd looked at her ruefully. “You’re a good kid, Molly. My flight leaves in a couple of hours, so I’ve got to hurry.”

Picking up his suitcase, he stepped out into the storm that was again raging full force.

Wet. She was very wet. This was the first coherent thought she could put together.

Molly stood dripping rainwater onto the lobby carpet, swaying slightly as she tried to process what had just happened. Reaching in her purse unthinkingly for a dry tissue, she felt something smooth and soft. She pulled out the pink rose Todd had given her.

She had been a fool, a complete and utter fool, about Todd and about Sherlock. An unbearable pain took her heart. Molly let the flower slip through her fingers.


	9. Chapter 9

“Have you seen a woman, five feet three inches tall, long chestnut brown hair, wearing a ruby necklace and a crimson ball gown?”

The desk clerk craned her neck to see around Sherlock’s broad shoulders. “Yes, she’s right over … well, she was standing by that brown chair a bit ago.”

Sherlock spun and took in the lobby. Two older wingback chairs faced a brick fireplace. Molly was nowhere to be seen.

“Was she alone?” he demanded.

The clerk thought for a moment. “She inquired after one of our guests. Then she spoke to a man who was on his way out. He left, but I didn’t see her go with him.”

Sherlock strode over to the brown chair and observed a damp patch on the carpet where Molly recently had stood for several minutes. Seeing something pink on the floor, he crouched down and picked up the rose she had dropped. He quickly scrolled through his contacts and texted John.

**_Not at hotel. Meet me at M’s flat. --SH_ **

~s~s~s~s~

Molly wished she hadn’t left her coat at the ball. It was black wool with an elegant rouched shawl collar and a self-tie waist that she had found on sale at Debenhams. Perhaps it would still be there if she went back tomorrow.

But, honestly, what did it matter?

She also wished she had hailed a cab sooner than she did. After all she was a doctor; she knew the symptoms of hypothermia. But when she had left Todd’s hotel, she wasn’t thinking clearly. Still spinning from his admission, she had walked a distance in a white and misty world before realizing the insanity of thinking the weather and her new high heels would let her get home on foot. After she climbed in the cab, Molly kept her gaze averted from the questioning looks the driver not so subtly gave her in the rearview mirror.

With her head beginning to pound, Molly closed her eyes. The past couple of hours were bewildering. Sherlock had bid on and won her at the bachelorette auction, even though he wasn’t her date and had no real reason for even being present. They shared a romantic waltz during which she thought she saw a flicker of _something_ , but he said he had only bid on her to save her from embarrassment. Out of pity, really. She had accused him of driving off Todd, a man she believed was her true friend. But that wasn’t true; he was trying to rob her.

Molly’s slender shoulders slumped. She had once again let a criminal get close to her. There really wasn’t anything she could say in defense of that. She had humiliated herself, first by dating a thief and then by verbally attacking Sherlock, the man she loved, the man who had warned her about Todd from the start. He would surely hate her now, and she didn’t blame him.

 Overwhelmed, she buried her face in her hands.

“You all right, miss?” the cabbie asked.

Slowly looking up, she tried to meet his well-meaning concern with a smile, but her chattering teeth prevented that.

“Got a bit chilled, that’s all.”

~s~s~s~s~

“Why do you have a key to Molly’s?” John asked as he looked around her cheerful, bright living room.

When he and Sarah met up with Sherlock outside of Molly’s building, John had assumed they would wait there for her to arrive. He was surprised when Sherlock let himself in as effortlessly as if it were Baker Street.

“I stayed here briefly after Reichenbach,” Sherlock said absently, thumbing through Molly’s mail.

“Shouldn’t you have returned it?”

“Then we would not be able to wait for her here, could we? Think it though, John.” Half of the envelopes slid to the floor as Sherlock tossed them toward the table. Steepling his fingers, he tapped his chin as he began to pace. “If she had taken a cab straight home, she would have beaten us here. Where else would she have gone? It makes no sense for her to go to St. Bart’s. She would not have taken her work keys and ID badge in that small evening bag she carried tonight. No, everything points to her returning home.”

“Of course she’s on her way home,” Sarah called from the kitchen, trying to push away her own worried thoughts. She busied herself putting the kettle on. No doubt Molly would need a good cup of tea. “Have you tried her mobile again?”

“She’s still not picking up,” John replied. “Sarah, you said she left without her coat. Maybe she left her mobile in her coat pocket?”

Sherlock grunted in agreement. “That is a good assumption.”

“Maybe she stopped for a drink somewhere,” John suggested, sitting down on the rocking chair.

Wearing a path on the carpet, Sherlock shook his head. “Molly is more likely to indulge in sweets than alcohol when she is upset.”

He paused to look out the window. It had stopped raining; now tendrils of fog curled through the streets, obscuring everything in their path. Sherlock stood, lost in thought. There was no telling what Todd might have said to Molly about her grandfather or the necklace. He might have come up with a new set of lies, or he might have confessed everything. Without knowing this data, it was difficult to judge what her next actions would have been.

Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck. “Wait here,” he ordered. “I will go look for her.”

“Where are you going to start?” asked John, getting up to follow him.

Sherlock flung open the front door to come face to face with a shivering Molly. Beautifully curled earlier in the evening, her hair now hung in limp strands. The lovely gown that flowed so effortlessly when she waltzed now was wet and dotted with mud. Her flawless eye makeup ran in dark streaks down her pale cheeks.

She gave no indication that she was surprised to see Sherlock inside her flat. Instead her eyes brightly shone with new tears.

“Forgive me,” she cried hoarsely and stumbled.

Sherlock gathered her up in his arms.

“No, I can walk,” she weakly protested.

“Bring her in here,” Sarah said, leading the way to Molly’s bedroom. “We need to get her warm.”

Gently placing Molly on top of the bed, Sherlock stepped back as Sarah quickly took off Molly’s heels. As the young pathologist continued to tremble violently, Sarah rolled her on her side and began unzipping the sodden dress.

“I’m going to get these wet clothes off of her,” Sarah calmly said. “John, could you look for a hot water bottle? Sherlock, go get the tea.”

Not used to being the one relegated to the kitchen, Sherlock nonetheless made a strong cuppa, making sure to add extra sugar in case Molly were to go into shock. He returned to Molly’s room to see her under several layers of blankets. Sarah was drying Molly’s hair with a thick bath towel. The lovely crimson gown lay in a discarded heap on the floor.

“So you thought walking in this weather without a coat was a good idea?” Sarah gently scolded her friend.

“Yes … no … I don’t know.” Molly’s convulsive shivering had slowed, but Sherlock could hear her teeth chattering.

“I’ll get your hair dryer. Keep this towel wrapped on top of your head, OK? Now, where did John get to?”

Sarah patted Sherlock reassuringly on the arm as she walked out of the room. Molly watched as Sherlock set the cup on her nightstand next to the necklace and sat on the edge of the bed. Reaching under the blanket, he took her hand in his.

“You are still very cold,” he observed.

“Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?” she asked anxiously, intertwining her fingers through his.

“I don’t have a heart,” he said lightly.

“That isn’t true. You would never have lied to me if you didn’t have a heart.” Her voice was faint. “Please forgive me.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. He wasn’t used to anyone giving him a heartfelt apology. Usually when it became apparent to everyone that he had been right all along, he was told to sod off. John had explained that if he didn’t act like such a condescending jerk, more people would be willing to listen when he explained how right he indeed was.

Shifting uncomfortably, he said, “You have now asked me three times to forgive you. Once was enough.”

Upon hearing this, Molly relaxed back into her pillows. Her breathing became more regular as her convulsive shivering abated. John hadn’t been able to find a hot water bottle, but he did locate a heating pad, which he placed at Molly’s feet. After drying her friend’s hair, Sarah sat at the head of Molly’s bed and helped her take a few sips of hot tea.

“I’m fine,” Molly said. “Really, I’m fine.”

Her three friends noticed that she was avoiding looking at them directly.

“I agree that you’re going to be fine, but I’d feel better if one of us stayed the night,” said John. “Just in case.”

“I will,” Sherlock announced.

“You aren’t a doctor,” John argued.

“I am also not an imbecile! I know what to do!” Sherlock snapped.

“Boys, be quiet,” Sarah whispered. “She’s already fallen asleep.”

~s~s~s~s~

Sherlock sat on the edge of Molly’s bed and watched her for a while. In the timeless release of sleep, she wasn’t burdened by the memories of Todd, Jim, or the many times he himself had hurt her.

It was very late. Taking off his suit coat, he pushed up the sleeves of his purple button up.

Stirring, Molly opened her eyes, taking a few seconds to adjust to the darkened room. “Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you here?”

“We agreed it would be best if I stayed to keep watch over you tonight. Do you need anything? Are you ill?” he asked, sitting back down.

“No.” She rolled onto her side to see him better. “Why don’t you at least sit here and lean against my headboard? You’ll be more comfortable.”

Agreeing with her assessment, Sherlock settled next to her, stretching out his long legs.

Darkness can do many things. It can play tricks on the mind. It can frighten. And it can give people the intimacy and protection they need to speak candidly. Molly felt more at ease next to Sherlock in her dark bedroom than she had a thousand other times in the lab.

“The awful things I said … I’ll make it up to you, if you’ll let me.”

Sherlock did not have the patience to keep reassuring Molly. “You do not owe me a debt. From what I understand, that is not how friendship works.”

To his aggravation, she continued to feel badly. “You must think I’m the biggest fool. Of the last few men who have shown any interest in me, two were criminals, and I never saw it.”

“I think two criminals recognized your trusting and generous nature and took advantage of it for their own purposes,” Sherlock disagreed. “What did Todd tell you?”

“That he needed money and looked me up online. You know the rest,” she said, feeling a rush of embarrassment.

“And your grandfather?” Sherlock asked.

“What about grandfather?” Molly scrunched her face, confused.

“I misspoke. I meant your grandmother. Your grandmother’s necklace,” Sherlock covered quickly.

“Oh, he had no remorse in telling me he planned to steal it.” She snorted contemptuously at herself. “I had better lose this naïveté, because my track record speaks for itself.”

“I would not want you to change anything about yourself.” Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, also sensing the freedom the darkness gave. “What about him did you find so charming?”

Molly considered this for a minute. “He reminded me of when I had family. That made me feel like someone knew me, past and present. But the truth is, you were right. I was caught up in sentimental memories. I don't have a family any more."

“True,” Sherlock agreed. “But you have me and John and Sarah and Greg and Mrs. Hudson.”

“Do I? Do I really still have your friendship? I doubted you when you were the one who saw everything clearly.” Molly worried her lower lip.

“That isn't necessarily correct,” Sherlock confessed.

“What do you mean?”

“On several occasions John pointed out that my behavior resulted from jealousy and it clouded my judgment. I did not like your affection for him.”

Molly blushed. “It wasn’t like I was crazy about him. He did things I didn’t like.”

“Such as?”

“He drank too much. He felt as if he were entitled to things. He was pushy.”

Ever alert, Sherlock listened attentively. “About what?”

“He kissed me.”

“Yes, I was in the lab when he first greeted you.”

“No, when he spent the night out there on my couch, he kissed me and tried to do more.”

Sherlock stiffened. “What?”

Molly grinned. “I put a stop to it before he got carried away.”

The detective grew angry. “Then I was right to suspect the next morning that something had happened between you two!”

“No, you were wrong. You weren’t going off suspicions that morning. You were acting jealous. I have a big problem with you making assumptions about … my sex life.” Molly blushed at the words.

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Molly knew this opportunity of truth telling might not come again. “Why did you bid on me?”

“To save you from an embarrassment.”

Molly rolled onto her back. “That isn’t true. I had two other men bidding on me before you stepped in. You easily could have let one of them win and told me about Todd afterward. You didn’t have to bid on me, win me, or waltz with me for that matter. So why did you?”

“I do not like to lose." Sherlock’s rich baritone voice hesitated. "You are my pathologist. You are my True North. No one but me would be allowed to waltz with you this evening, You are my Molly, not someone else’s.”

Knowledge dawned on her like joy. “You bid on me because you like me? Me?”

Sherlock swallowed hard. He had outwitted criminals, faced death many times, stared down psychopathic murderers and not blinked. And yet what he felt for little Molly Hooper who was smart and strong and who loved with her whole heart perplexed and terrified him.

He was a smart man. He knew the inevitable. It might not happen now or next month, but there would come a time when he would hurt her too completely for her to forgive him. And when that happened, Sherlock knew he would be lost.

But what if John was right? What if caring wasn’t a bad thing? It went against everything Sherlock had ever known. But it was the biggest mystery of all.

Lowering onto the bed and propping up on his elbow, he stared into her eyes.

“We’ll always be friends?”

“Yes.”

“I won you at the bachelorette auction, which means for a certain period of time, you are mine, correct?”

“Yes,” she said hesitantly.

“For how long?”

It was the first time she had ever heard the consulting detective express such uncertainty. Her slim hand reached up to his face.

“Oh, Sherlock, don’t you know? Forever.”

~s~s~s~s~

_**Inspired by "The Dark Waltz" performed by Haley Westerna** _

**_Inspired by “The Boscombe Valley Mystery” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_ **


End file.
